Scars and Masked Men
by ShatteredAngelWings
Summary: Adrian doesn't need anyone; she's learned that all people do is hurt each other. She's strange with a dry humor, sarcastic streak and brooding attitude. What happens when sweet, clumsy Thomas stumbles into her dark isolation? Thomas/OC. Warnings: attempted suicide, self-harm, language, rated M for later chapters
1. Prologue

Prologue

IN A RUN-down gas station sits a woman. She is older, with kind but sharp eyes, wavy graying hair pulled into a braid, and red glasses that swing against her large breasts by a chain. She's sweating terribly, the air conditioner is broken again, but she doesn't seem phased by the sweat on her skin. She's dressed in a knee-length floral dress and sandals. She turns to the window upon hearing the roar of a car and watches four teenagers clamber out: two girls, two boys, each holding hands.

There's a girl with lots of makeup on holding hands with an African American boy with long dreads; another girl, this one has large breasts that are barely concealed in a tight pink tube top, is pawing at a muscular boy with close-cropped hair. The woman's so busy studying them that she almost doesn't notice another figure climb out. But, as the bell jingles, she notices the final figure.

It's another girl, wearing jeans and an oversized jacket with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. She has earphones in, her head bobbing along to some music. She doesn't have on any makeup aside from a bit of chap-stick and almost every inch of her is covered, with the exception of her arms, neck and face. She seems to be the only one without a boy-toy.

Luda Mae Hewitt straightens her dress, fixes her hair and waits for the teens.


	2. One

One

_"All the truths, all the lies. Let them into your mind. Let them in too, let me in you. Run screaming, run screaming to me_."—Alice Is Dead, Hania Zdunek.

"THEY SAY SHE'S really a witch," says the redhead with insanely blue eyes in front of me. The curly-haired blonde swim model glares at me when she notices I'm staring. "You know," I say slowly, closing my book gently and running a finger up its spine thoughtfully, "it's rather _rude _to gossip about someone when they can clearly hear your grating voices."

"And, if I was witch, why would I waste my summer with you four idiots when I could be sacrificing baby goats to the demons of the Underworld?" I ask with a sneer and Swim Suit turns to me, her grey eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Witches are going to hell," she tells me, pointing to the cross necklace nestled in between her breasts.

"Says the swim suit model who parades around half-naked," I chortle back, brushing my bangs out of my eyes. I lay my hand on my thigh, drumming my fingers to the beat of my music. "At least I have a body I can flaunt," she snaps back, pressing her breasts together and pushing them at me. "Yes, yes, I know you have watermelons on your chest. Now get them away before I cut them off," I hiss.

With a noise of fear, she retreats, hands clasped protectively over her bouncy melons. "I feel sorry for the poor guy who has to deal wit her," mutters Big Breasts. I lean across the back seat and say, in a calm but deadly voice, "Say that again, you little girl. I _dare _you." She flashes me a sugary smile before biting out, annunciating each syllable carefully, "I. Feel. Sorry. For. The. Guy. Who. Has. To. Deal. With. You."

I'm on her ass in less then ten seconds.

* * *

Joshua, the idiot driving and Swim Suit's boyfriend, pulls over and wrestles me off Big Breasts. She's sporting a split lip, several scratches across her fake tan, and messed up hair. I hold several strands in my hand. "What the hell, you crazy witch?" screams Swim Suit. I spit in her direction.

"What the hell, man?" says Joshua as he picks me up off the ground and shoves me into the van's back door. I don't bat an eye. "You're such a big, strong man sticking for Big Boobs over here, sir. You really are." I laugh when he slams me again, my head cracking hard against the window.

"You _bitch!" _he snarls. "Joshua," says the other boy, Connor, and peels Swim Suit's pissy boyfriend off me. I don't rub my head to nurse the pain in the back, no; I wear it like armor. _The pain is good; it keeps you focused and helps you concentrate, _I tell myself as I notice the shabby gas station. "Let's go in," says Big Breasts, eyeing me distastefully. I smirk when she starts as I mock-lunge at her.

Hands in my pockets, I stroll after them casually. A cow bell sounds when the door opens and I'm hit with the aroma of old books, the pages worn and ink beginning to fade, dust trapped in the fibers. The room itself is tiny, with dirty windows, flies smashing themselves in the meat display under the counter and rows and rows of empty chairs and stools.

Big Breasts positions her boy toy between us just in case I go at her again. Joshua gives me pathetically lame death glares as the door beside the counter opens and a woman walks out, a lit cigarette dangling from her mouth. She's older, with bad sunburn across her cheeks and sweat gleams on her skin. Her damp grey hair is wrestled into a braid, her glasses sliding down her nose, and her dress is wrinkled, dark pit stains under the armpits. She eyes the two girls with distaste before turning to me.

"What can I help ya'll with?" she asks me. "Police station," grunts Joshua, his eyes narrowing at me. I shrug. "She assaulted my girlfriend!" he adds in. _Like that's going to make something happen, _I think with a snort. "I'm Luda Mae and mah' brother, Hoyt, is the sheriff. Now, young lady, do ya' have a name."

"My name is Adrian," I say calmly, meeting her eyes. "And it's not my fault. They were calling me a witch."

"You're going to burn in hell!" screams Swim Suit.

"Says the girl who flaunts around in a bikini!" I hiss back. Luda Mae steps out from behind the counter and glares at Swim Suit. "Ok. What happened?"

"People think I'm a witch, which isn't true. They were in front of me, chattering away incessantly. They knew I was listening when they called me a witch," I explain, lacing my hands in front of me and staring at the rings on my hand.

Three on my thumb, my junior, senior, and graduation rings; one on my middle finger, my family ring with our crest, and one on my pinky, a thick cuff-like ring that's engraved with _I solemnly swear that I'm up to no good. _On the opposite hand are three rings: on my thumb is Slytherin ring, on my middle finger is silver band that reads _until the very end _and the last one is on my ring finger, a small ring with an engraving of the Deathly Hallows symbol.

"Swim Suit over there decided to push her oversized melons into my face and I threatened to cut them off. Of course, granted I have nothing to use to cut them off with, she had nothing to worry about. Her little _friend, _on the other, is another thing. She told me she felt sorry for the poor guy who got stuck with me." I count back from ten for a split second, breath deeply and calm down as the rage that threatened to burst cools to a simmer.

"So I attacked her. They're both very narcissistic when it comes to their figures and they make a big show of how I don't meet their standard."

Luda Mae is quiet.

"Now, you—" She points to Big Breasts, who bounces closer. "What happened?" Big Breasts launches into her side of things, making it sound more unprovoked than it actually was.

"We can talk about this over dinner at my house." Luda Mae stands, wipes her hands on her dress and eyeballs Big Breasts's tight top. "Let's go."

* * *

Luda Mae's house is pretty, an old plantation with a crooked porch, broken shutters, several cracked windows and a torn door. The color is off-white and the roof and door compliment it with a deep burgundy. "The Sheriff's gonna believe her," hisses Swim Suit, "and then you'll go to jail and get the hell out of everyone's lives."

I glance down at my arms, at my rings and turn my hand palm up. Under my sleeves, my arms are a mess of ugly scars but no one will ever know. No one will ever _want _to know me. I don't care about anyone but myself.

_I don't need anyone. _


	3. Two

Two

_"And that's what makes a man__  
__Not hard to understand, perfect in every way__  
__I see it in his face, nothing more to say__  
__It's in his D-D-DNA_."— DNA, Little Mix

* * *

THERE'S A MAN in a wheelchair that Big Breasts and Swim Suit make fun of behind Luda Mae's back. He's old, with thinning grey hair, dirty glasses and five o'clock shadow. He's wearing a dingy white tank top, shorts and he has a scruffy white dog on his lap. He eyeballs the girls and then stares at me. I'd stare at me too; I know I'm a sight with my firetruck-red, black-tipped hair and piercings.

"My name's Adrian, sir," I say, holding my hand out. He looks me up and down slowly, as if debating on whether or not I'm trouble and lifts a gnarled hand. His fingers clamp down firmly as he pumps twice and then lets my hand drop.

"Adrian," says Luda Mae, smiling at me while she wipes her fingers on her dress, "Come along." The wheelchair man says nothing, only waves absently and turns his attention to the flickering TV. He flips to a black-and-white cartoon and I smile as I turn away. Following Luda Mae, she leads me into a small kitchen, where Joshua; Conner; Big Breasts; and Swim Suit are gathered around a table with a lean man who's sneering at everyone. He wears a rumpled, beige sheriff uniform and, as his lip curls, I notice his teeth are tobacco stained.

Luda Mae holds out a dingy but clean glass of lemonade; I politely decline. "Lemonade doesn't sit well with me," I say as I sink into a chair across from the group of people. "This is Sheriff Hoyt," says Luda Mae with a smile, brushing a damp curl away from her face. "And then," bursts Big Breasts, leaning forward so the old man has a good look down her tank top, "this crazy bitch, who does voodoo and kills puppies to sacrifice, reaches over and knocks me in the face! And I didn't even do anything."

I watch as the man licks the sweat off his top lip, tips off his hat and fans himself with it. "Josh managed to pull off in front of your sister's gas station. He pulled her off me." They smile suggestively at each other; Swim Suit is too busy eyeballing Conner to notice her disloyal boyfriend. Hoyt turns his dark gaze to me.

"And what about you, girlie?"

"Mr. Hoyt, my name is Adrian and I would very much like it if you used that instead of _girlie_."

I lean back, cross my arms and pretend to think. "They call me a witch." I glance down at my nails. "Swim Suit says I'm gonna burn in hell; I counter it with the fact that she flaunts her body all over the place in a barely-covering-the-essentials bikini. She made a show of pushing her breasts into my face and I threatened to cut them off. Granted, I had nothing sharp on me—" _Except my razors _"—so I couldn't have followed through on the empty threat itself."

I slide my finger across my bottom lip and feel it catch on my lip ring. "The other one—" I jerk my head at Big Breasts, "—told me she'd be sorry for the poor guy who got stuck with me. I attacked her in anger. Conner over here, the one who's playing footsie Swim Suit, slammed me up against the door. He kept screaming at me."

I tap my lip, twist my lip ring and hum under my breath. "And you know the rest." I sit back, lace my fingers, and watch Luda Mae through a curtain of hair. "So," says Hoyt, sipping a beer that sweats all over his hand, "you attacked her." I nod. "And you antagonized her." Big Breasts and Swim Suit immediately argue but Hoyt holds up his palm. "Guys," Joshua calls, wiping sweat from his forehead as he walks back in.

"We're out of gas. And we got four flat tires and no spares." Big Breasts shoots me a glare like it's my fault and points a hot-pink fake nail in my face. "She did it!" I look up at her, a bored expression on my face as I lean over, place my elbows on my knees and hold my chin. "I've been here the entire time, imbecile," I drawl, twisting my senior ring so the green gem is facing the floor.

"You _witch! _You did your creepy voodoo magic!" screams Swim Suit, her tiny pea-sized brain overloaded with information. "Have you ever _once _heard me say an incantation?"

Her lips tremble.

"No."

I lean back, satisfied as Luda Mae pipes up. "We have some extra rooms here, if ya'll want to stay for a few nights. In the mornin' Hoyt can help you with some spare tires and gas." She glances at me, smiles quickly and then turns to Swim Suit, Big Breasts Joshua and Conner. "Upstairs. Boys and girls will be separated." I get to my feet. "Oh no, I have a room for you. It's at the end of the hall. Black door. Red doorknob." Her smile is soft and kind and I relax. "Why don't you take off that sweatshirt? It's very hot in that room."

"I—" My voice is weak and cracks.

"She's covered in scars from being an attention whore," Conner sneers from the landing on the staircase. Luda Mae's hawk eyes shoot him daggers until he retreats upstairs as I sink into the chair and hug myself firmly. The gem of my class ring bites into my palm. "I'm fine," I tell Luda Mae, who watches me closely. "Please, I don't want ya' to get heat stroke," she pleads and I shake my head. "I'm good. I'm actually a little chilly so I think I'll keep it on."

Retreating upstairs, I walk down the hallway; my entire body is shaking and I feel lightheaded.

_Why should I care? _I ask myself as I open my door. The room is cozy, with books and books on the large bookcases; a small, unmade bed tucked away into a corner underneath a dirty window and a dresser lies beside it.

I slip off my shoes, rub my sore heels and slowly, carefully, unzip my hoodie. Inch by inch, smooth black fabric comes into view and soon, the hoodie is on the bed and I pull off my shirt. In the full-sized mirror, I study the scars on my arms and the fresh, slightly bleeding scabs of last night.

The scars have been there since I turned eighteen. I'm twenty. The scars are long; short; puckered; deep; shallow. They are a part of me; I am a part of them. I trace the newest scab, _fat_, and suck the blood off my finger. Someone knocks on my door and I pull on my shirt gracelessly just as the door creaks open.

"Hello," I say, not meeting the man's gaze. He's tall, must be part giant, and towers in the doorway; he's also broad, about as wide as the doorway and he's completely still like a statue. He's wearing a white t-shirt with dirt and bloodstains on it, ratty brown slacks and big, chunky black boots that are heavy when they fall with his footsteps.

His hair is long, dark and falls in wild curls down to his neck, where it stops. His skin is dark, stained with dirty so I can't really tell what color it is. His eyes are the deepest, darkest green I've ever seen; it's like staring into a thick forest. His eyelashes could give a mascara model a run for her money. His eyes crinkle around the corners and, judging by his tight stance, it's out of confusion.

"Luda Mae she's helping us. Well, mainly those idiots downstairs." I notice my wrist is showing and pull the sleeve down so it covers my skin. I gnaw my lip, shuffling to the vanity and staring at my crooked reflection.

My skin is pale as snow; my hair is red as fire but the ends are black as ebony; and my eyes are dark as the blue midnight sky. On my jaw, there's a deep scar, a chunk of tissue missing; on my top lip there's a scar.

I reach for my brush and slowly run the bristles through my hair. It runs down my back in a scruffy mane of black and red; it looks greasy under the light. I play with my hair, my eyes focused on the man's muscular chest. His footsteps are surprisingly quiet as he walks closer. His hand reaches out and brushes against my back, playing with my hair; he stares at the unnatural colors. I bite my tongue.

"Adrian! Time for supper!" Luda Mae calls and I abandon my brush and hair. When I move towards the door, the man blocks me. I stare through the gap between his extended arm and his side at the wall. "If you move, I'll be on my way," I say coldly. He shakes his head and backs me up against the bed. My heart is pounding double time.

_I don't need anyone. _

I clench my jaw and narrow my eyes at him. "Listen," I hiss, "I don't have to time for bullshit. Get off me before I reduce your chances of reproduction." He doesn't listen. His hot, hard weight presses my back against the bed; his hands are rough and calloused as they clasp my neck, draw up my jaw and stroke my cheeks. I duck out of his reach and pull my leg up; with precise aim, the bottom of my Demonia sneaker hits him square in the bits.

He lets out a loud, frightening wail and his eyes shut tight as he stumbles back, clutching himself. "I asked you nicely. I asked you twice. I warned you." I go to prop myself up but he lunges; his momentum throws me back against the mattress. His eyes are like shards of glass, cutting through me and shaking me to the core. I may not care about people but I know when someone's pissed beyond belief and this guy is the epitome of pissed. His muscles bulge as he pins me down with his full weight; he crushes my body into the mattress.

I try to breathe through the tears as his hands appear on either side of my head but I really get scared when they close around my throat. "Thomas?" _Thomas. _"What are you—get off her this instant! Thomas Jedidiah Hewitt! Stop! She's not one of them!" The would-be killer/rapist makes a noise.

The pressure of his hands is gone; I gulp down air and cough violently. Through my tears, I sit up and tremble slightly. I've never been so unnerved. "What did you do to my Thomas?" snarls Luda Mae, her expression twisted with anger as the tall, curly-haired guy moans behind the human-like mask. "I—I…I asked him to move so I could get out. He refused." I wipe my eyes while turning away, coughing still, shuddering with each cough. "He backed me up against the bed; I warned him if he didn't get off me, I would reduce his chances of reproduction."

I take three deep breaths, steady my panicky heart, and continue. "He pressed me against the bed and wouldn't let up. He didn't say anything but his hands kept touching me. I kicked him in the bits. When he fell back, I made for the door." The would-be rapist/killer makes a noise again, this one deeper and slower than before.

"Hush!"

I tighten my hands into fists and reach for my sweatshirt. The sleeves of my shirt ride up; revealing scarred skin and Luda Mae rests a hand on mine. I pull away.

"He lunged. He had me pinned again but his hands were on my throat, tightening…He would've killed me." _I wanted to do it myself. _"Thomas," sighs Luda Mae, "is different, Adrian." I turn to the crouching man, trembling when I step closer. "I'm sorry I kicked you, Thomas," I say, offering my fake-I'm-sorry smile. He stares at my wrist and I realize that I really need longer sleeves to keep my arms hidden.

"Dearie, why don't you head down? I need to talk to Thomas." Luda Mae smiles tightly and I pull on my sweatshirt while walking through the doorway. The door slams shut behind me. In the dark hallway, I get chills. Something isn't right about this place; something isn't right about these people but there's something wrong with the couples I'm traveling. I admire the pictures on the wall. I stop at one that makes me laugh. It's a little boy with a burn crawling across his face chasing after three hens, his arms out-stretched; a man and a woman sit on the porch behind him.

The woman looks like Luda Mae, only with less wrinkles and darker, auburn hair in its familiar braid; the man looks like a younger, less greasy version of Hoyt, drinking a beer with a smile. There's a little white dog chasing after the burnt boy, the boy's mouth open in a laugh…

"That's Thomas," says Luda Mae behind me. I nod. "That was taken when he was around ten. Before…well, he's got this condition, you see?" She glances around, takes me by the arm and leads me into the kitchen. "Help me with those tomatoes." I wash my hands, ignoring the fact I should roll up my sleeves and begin to thinly slice the tomatoes. Red juice oozes out like blood as Luda Mae dices the green peppers. "Thomas…I found him in a dumpster." She glances over at the dark door in the hallway connecting the kitchen to the foyer. "Tiny little thing he was," she says, slicing red pepper into halves. "He was all pink and small and wrapped up in the hospital blanket. Somebody thought he was ugly and threw him out," she continues, slicing the halves into quarters, "I took him home that day. He was born with a rare skin disease that ate away at his skin."

She dumps the red peppers into the salad and turns her attention to the red onions. I slide the watery tomatoes in. The red peppers and tomatoes look like lumps of blood. "The kids at school hated him. They bullied him so badly…" For the next few minutes, everything is quiet. I dice up celery stalks in short chops. "He's a good boy, Thomas is." Her voice is quivering. "Kids make fun of me even today," I say.

I curse my slip of the tongue when she stops dicing onions.

"Why?"

I force myself not to care. "Kids are like that." I stop cutting the celery, dump into the bowl and cross my arms. The fabric of my sweatshirt rubs the scars raw. "Mama!" screams Hoyt. Luda Mae wipes her fingers, fixes her face in a smile and shoos me out of the kitchen. When I settle down into a seat, sort of near the end of the table with empty chairs on either side of me, I notice there's thumping coming from the door Luda Mae had glanced at.

Suddenly, it swings open and Thomas's mammoth form glides out. He smells of wet soil and blood. He kicks the door closed and lumbers down the connecting hallway; the floorboards groan under his weight on his ascend up the stairs. "Did you see that freaky mask?" asks Big Breasts, sipping her beer.

"Yeah," says Conner, admiring the view down her shirt to her fake boobs.

I settle back, cross my arms and wait for this day to be over.


	4. Three

WARNING: Self-harm

* * *

Three

"_I know you lay in bed,_

_Contemplating your own death._

_Well, just look at what you've done._

_Don't you dare forget the sun, love!" _—Don't Forget the Sun, Get Scared

* * *

THOMAS IS HESITANT about sitting next to me, trembling, but I barely even notice anyone. I keep my focus on my hands; I memorize the scrapes from fumbling for a knife just last night. Swim Suit keeps stroking Conner's arm, leaning in closer than a girl with a boyfriend should; Joshua is wiping the sweat from his face with his shirt and Big Breasts watches him a little too closely. Uncle Monty is staring at me openly, his little white dog barking her head off.

"Hello, there," I say, offering her my hand; she sniffs my fingertips and suddenly hops into my lap, sniffing at my neck and arms, tongue lapping at the slightly bloody cuts under the sleeves. "She has a nose for injuries," Monty drawls, his dark eyes meeting mine.

I stiffen.

"Take off the sweatshirt, Adrian," he says, his eyes resting on my shoulder. My hands are sweating as I stand slowly and peel off the fabric; if I disobey, Thomas will get angry and might try to kill me again. I hear Luda Mae gasp and, out of the corner of my eye, spot Thomas stiffen. My arms are horrible, I know. They're covered in ugly, fat scars that never heal and new scabs that bleed ever so slightly if I pick at them; I've dusted them with a few burns here and there. The skin is similar to gauze and feels bumpy when I hug myself.

"Dear Lord, child, what—"

Big Breasts cuts Luda Mae off mid-sentence. "She did that herself," she drawls, kicking up her too-tall heels onto the table. Conner gets a good look down her skirt as Luda Mae scowls at her. "She's always been an attention whore," adds Swim Suit and I scrape my nails against the scabs until they bleed. Thomas makes a noise.

Conner slams his fist into the table and starts hollering at me. "Why would you do that? You sick in the head or something?" Spittle flies from his lips. "Young man—"

"You fucked up? What if you kill us all or some shit? You a crackhead?" The noise that escapes Thomas is a strangled mix between a scream and a sob of anger. I dig my nail into my palms and get to my feet; I can barely move my legs. I move towards the doorway but, before I can get so much as an inch through it, I hear a sharp scream of pain.

Unbidden, my head turns and I stare at Conner clutching his broken nose, blood staining his lips as Monty shakes his head, flecks of blood dotting the lap dog's fur. "You little shit," I hiss, losing my cool for the first time in years.

I lunge and kick Conner hard in the face, hearing a sickening crunch and he screams even louder; his hands claw at his right eye socket; it seems I've shattered the bone. I draw my leg back, lining my foot up with his bits, and my foot flies forward with all my weight and force. He rolls out of the way and rough, calloused hands pin my arms against my side.

I take short, quick breaths. _Don't let them see; don't let them in, _I tell myself as I calm down, relaxing. "Thomas, let her go." He does so, making me stumble. I grip the tabletop firmly and use it as leverage. I turn on my heel and walk away, despite Luda Mae's calling of my name. No one follows me as they all begin to yell and argue and talk shit.

I make my way to my room, open the door and creep inside. All my hard work, every hoodie and long-sleeved shirt to hide them have gone to waste. I pull off my sweatshirt and stare at myself in the mirror. I pull off my shirt and pinch the fat above my belt; slap it hard and watch it jiggle disgustingly. I pull at the bulges of fat on my sides; watch them fall back into placed. I trace the scars, ugly words that echo in my mind when I fail to sleep; the words that spilled out of a million mouths and carved with invisible hands into my skin.

My fingers ghost of the bumps of ladder rungs running up my forearms, over bumpy scabs that peel away and bleed when they catch on my nails and across rigged burns. They gleam in the light.

_If only they knew, _I think to myself, tracing the spider-web scars across my belly, hating the way they stretch across the bulging fat. I make my way to my backpack, pick through it and open the little black wooden box with the key I wear around my neck. The lid pops open and the smell makes me shudder.

I take out the knife; set it aside and search for the pointy edge of my razor blades. They slip out with a quick shake, whispering promises. _I'll take away your pain, _they whisper and tangle in my empty head.

They taste sweet, their promises never broken. Unlike people, they're always here. I sit cross-legged, select one and unhurriedly put away the other things. I gaze into my eyes in the mirror's grimy reflection and slice into my arm. Hot prickling spreads down my spine. _Just a little more, Adrian. It feels so good, _whispers the silvery blade, ghosting across beating veins fresh with blood and the little cut that bleeds so much.

I nod and drag it across three more times. The pain is sharp and spreads to my fingertips as I wipe the blade clean with the cloth inside and rubbing alcohol. I lock it up, slap on some band-aids and slide back into my sweatshirt, feeling the cuts burn slightly. The only thing I hate is the burning after.

I remember once, when I was sixteen, I snuck my dad's vodka and sipped it. I sat up in my room and took sips, feeling it burn all the way down my belly; the burning of these cuts are ten times more intense than the burning of vodka rolling down your throat. I lay on the bed, staring up at the dust that dances around each other in the slants of light.

The door opens.

"Hello, Thomas."

The deformed giant doesn't say anything. "What? Are you just gonna stand there like a dunderhead?" I say, sitting up. He shuffles closer. In his hand is a bowl of steaming stew with a thick slice of hard-crusted bread.

"I'm not hungry."

_Fatfat**fatfatFAT**__FAT. _

He shakes his head and sets the plate on the dresser. The bed dips. _At least _he _isn't fat. He's probably all muscle, _I think to myself as a feather-light touch strokes down my arm. I turn my head.

"You have very nice eyes." He makes a soft noise, almost cooing, and his finger trails up my throat, trace my jaw line and pause at the scar in my jaw. There's a question in his eyes but I shake my head and pull away.

"Get out," I say, kicking off my sneakers. I reach for the hem of my shirt and glance over my shoulder. He's still there, unmoving, his eyes watching me in wonder. "Fine. But try any funny business and you won't be able to pee for a week."

He cups himself protectively.

I pull off my sweatshirt and hear a noise of surprise. I ignore him as I unhook my bra, keeping my chest angled out of his view and pull on a light shirt that reaches mid-thigh. As I unzip my jeans, I pick up a pair of sweats. _ Just one more before we sleep, _begs the razors in the box under the bed. I shake my head.

_Please, we love tasting your sweet caramel skin, _they say sweetly. Thomas's green, green eyes meet mine, curiosity brimming in the irises but I shuck the jeans into a corner and sit down on the bed. His hand touches my bare leg, hairless, but scarred with big fat burns and scabs and cuts. I watch as his hands run up and down my leg, stopping at my knees and turning back down to the tips of my toes and repeat. His hands are warm, like fire really, against my cold legs.

"Your hands are very warm."

His stroking doesn't falter.

"Your eyes are pretty." His stroking falters. "And your hair is so curly and dark, almost as black as ebony." My mouth is saying these things and I grip the sheets firmly when his hands rest on my thighs. The scars are gaping here; wide and about as long as my massive thigh. He stares up at me curiously.

"Don't."

His hands move up, tracing the scars.

"DON'T."

His hands brush over a particularly sensitive one.

"I said _don't!" _I push him away with all my strength and breathe heavily when he falls back, halfway across the room in a few strides. Tears build up behind my eyes.

"Get out."

The mirror shudders with the force of the door slamming shut. I lock it, shut the blinds and cry myself to sleep.

The razor blades are silent.


	5. Four

Warning: masturbation/voyeur scene

* * *

Four

_"She does not see the pulsing veins,_

_She does not feel her bone restraint."_—Dressed in Decay, CYK

MY HEAD IS pounding when I wake up and my eyes are puffy from crying all night. I can hear Luda Mae banging pots and pans. "Get up!" someone says, pounding on the door and I force myself to my feet. My feet find their way to the doorway; the rest of my body follows behind absently.

I can hear the water running so I skip my bathroom routine and head downstairs. Luda Mae is cooking meat, the thick, greasy scent filling the hallway and room. I force my legs to stop, stare at her. My stomach rumbles as I stare at the red meat. It looks fresh.

Soon enough, hungry teenagers rumpled with sleep and reeking of booze stumble from upstairs and I choose the loneliest seat. I watch the kids fill in the seats, the girls chattering while playing footsie with the boys under the table; the guys grunt and stare into their coffee mugs.

I sit alone, farthest away from them all. "Good mornin', Thomas," says Luda Mae and my stomach twists itself into an ugly, fat knot. I close my eyes and pretend to be half-asleep. The chair beside me scrapes. His heat prickles my skin. His hand brushes my arm, the heat burning through the fabric of my jacket and I open my eyes.

"I'm sorry."

The words, as low and softly spoken as they are, make him relax and he nods. His hands never stop stroking. I let him touch me, slowly, softly; his hands never still. I notice Joshua is missing and Luda Mae's expression turns pinched when I hear a low moaning sound. It makes my skin crawl.

Nobody else seems to hear the noise aside from Thomas, who whines uncomfortably and shifts repeatedly in his seat; he's fidgeting like an antsy child. "Thomas, go check on the pressure for the water heater," Luda Mae says, meeting my eyes over the counter. I rise to my feet and begin to mince potato wedges into smithereens, sprinkling them with salt and garlic powder. The only sound in the kitchen is the sizzling of the greasy meat and thunk of my sweet, sweet blade hitting the cutting board in rhythm.

"Toss those in the pan," Luda Mae tells me over her shoulder when I reach for the last potato. I dice it up nicely and add it to the seasoned pile; with a short jerk of my wrist, the potatoes pile into the hot pan and pop and hiss as they react to the heat. "When is it gonna be ready, lady?" demands Conner, a scowl twisting up his sweaty face. "Shut up," I mutter under my breath, slamming the tip of my knife into the board.

Luda Mae stares at me for a moment, before relaxing and turning to the teens and explaining the meat needs a bit longer to cook. As I wash off the board and knife, I notice a sharp smell coming from under the sink. It smells metallic, like…blood…

_You would know, _says the knife, _you've smelled it everyday day for as long as you can remember. _I shrug absently, trailing my finger along the sharp edge of the blade and smiling when it nicks the skin. The pain is sharp, making my skin prickle, and my body flushes with searing heat; I watch the beads of blood pool to the surface, bleed into the swirls of my fingerprint and fill the lines.

_That's better, _the knife sighs almost pleasurably, _isn't it? _I notice Luda Mae watching so I busy myself by washing the board again, running the hot water until it steams and letting my hands burn underneath its spray. "Adrian, go sit and eat." She swats a damp towel at my bum when I try to stay.

I slink away, folding myself into the chair easily as the door that Thomas came out the night before swings open and he lumbers out; with him, he carries the scent of blood, grime and damp earth on his dirty, grimy flesh. "Thomas, go wash up!" Luda Mae shrieks as he starts for the table.

With his green eyes cast down, he wobbles away and stomps upstairs. A door slams; pipes rattle and whine as the water begins to pour. I bite my lip and slip upstairs, claiming I'm going to go put on a different sweatshirt—which isn't a lie since this one smells like grease, which is making me queasy—and then I decide to wait for Thomas so we can walk downstairs together.

I hum under my breath as I wait, listening to the pipes rattle and whine. I'm just beginning to feel extremely silly for waiting for Thomas when the bathroom door opens, He comes out, his hair damp and sending trails of water down his shirt; his skin looks pink and scrubbed free of dirt, grime and blood.

He's still wearing that filthy mask. "Thomas," I say as he notices me and stops abruptly. A tendril of black hair falls into his eyes, wide and surprised as I take in the rest of his body. He's wearing nothing but a flimsy towel; to be honest, I'm rather surprised.

Every inch of his torso is hard muscle; he obviously works out a lot or something. He isn't exactly body builder like you would think; he still has some softness to his body.

His chest is smooth, aside from the thick, black trail from his navel disappearing behind his towel and, although I'm a virgin, I'm not an idiot to what lay at the end of that trail. His stomach ripples as though he can feel the heat of my stare and then he's fast walking down the hallway, slamming his bedroom (I'm guessing here) door.

"Adrian?"

"Coming!"

* * *

By the time everyone is done, night has fallen. Since the backdoor is open, I can hear the crickets singing and cicadas chirping, making a beautiful song. I stare out at the full moon with dazed eyes; it's so beautiful outside. Everything is silver in the moonlight, everything is still and it looks as though it's snowed.

I wipe off a clean, warm plate and add it to the growing stack of plates. I begin to sing quietly, swaying my hips as my hands work in circles. I imagine gentle, calloused hands leading me in a ballroom dance, a laugh falling from my lips; a kiss stolen under the warm stars and glowing moon.

I'm jerked awake when I hear a loud crash. Thomas stands there, wide-eyed, wearing that mask; his hands are open and at his bare feet are the remains of a shattered glass. The shards gleam in the moonlight, sweet and lollipop-innocent but I force my hands to work them from the floor and into the trashcan—not my pockets.

The shards whisper a song, alluring and sensual, tickling the forbidden desires deep inside my throat. I'd love to sneak just one, razor-sharp edge down, into my pocket so I can trace patterns and pictures onto my—_I really need to fix him a plate, _I tell myself.

"Did you eat?"

No answer from the giant.

I begin to work nervously in fixing him a plate, arranging the food just so. The meat is left to the mashed potatoes, warm still; a bundle of steamed broccoli seared in garlic salt and meat seasoning. There's a sprinkling of black peppercorn in the potatoes, giving them a kick (specialty of Monty, Luda Mae told me) and the meat is roasted in black peppercorn and soy sauce, creating a nice, crunchy outside and sweet, moist inside that knives cut through like butter.

"Here," I say, trying to force the thought of him from earlier out of my brain. He takes the plate, staring down at me the entire time with unreadable eyes, and turns and walks away. I frown at his back as I begin the task of putting the plates up. While I wrap the leftovers and stick them in the fridge, my mind goes back to earlier.

_"Thomas?"_

_He leans forward, head tilted and then the towel drops, landing in a wet heap on the floor. I mewl and press closer, grinding, gasping as his rough hands—_I seriously need to pee and maybe dunk my head under water a few times until I pass out. I dry off my lemon-scented hands, click off the light and walk into the connecting hallway.

Moonlight pools in, lighting my way. I'm halfway up the stairs when the first whispered noise reaches my ears. It's a low, soft moan—sexual. _Very sexual, _I think to myself as I hurry up the rest of the stairs, ignoring the creaking steps. I pass by the five doors on my way to my room and I hear, as I pass the first one, Big Breasts's crooning voice say, "Right there." Next voice is Swim Suit. "Like this?" A choked noise is Big Breasts's response.

Finally, Conner's raspy voice mutters, "You guys are hot as hell. Fucking shit, man."

I duck my head and reach for my bedroom door. I bite my lip, wondering whether or not to go in.

I push open the door and peel off my shirt, my breasts freed of their prison. I pull on a long shirt and off come my jeans. I kick them under the bed. On my way back from using the toilet and brushing my teeth, I hear heavily muffled noises from Thomas's room. Curious, and a little scared, I nudge open the door with my finger and it cracks a bit, moonlight spilling into the hallway.

I stand there, transfixed. Thomas lies on his bed, blankets bunched at his ankles, his head propped up on the headboard, his muscular arm pumping slowly between his legs. He's working his cock firmly. It's hard and thick, swollen with a bright pink head; it's about ten inches long. I swallow hard and feel my nipples pebble.

He squeezes it suddenly, letting out a low groan and then his hand is a blur, moving up and down quickly; I nearly cream myself watching. He slows down, rolling his hands, his cock swollen with need—so close to completion.

I rub myself slowly, letting out a little noise. His head shoots ups, wide-eyed as he throbs several times. Thick, hot ropes hit his stomach, a strike contrast against the matted black fur and then his eyes meet mine. I stumble back, hitting the wall hard.

"I-I-I—"

I stop mid-sentence and dart down the hall. I slam the door, lock it and hide under the covers.

The pillow is damp with tears of fear, self-loathing and self-disgust as I drift off.


	6. Chapter 6

Four

_"It's underneath the skin,_

_Consuming all my senses_

_Clouding any good in me_

_I catalyst for change_

_Only one way to evade it:_

_Survive the night 'til the break of dawn."— _The Curse, the Ministry of Magic

* * *

MY EYES BURN when I wake up slowly, hair tangled and gnarled. Every inch of me aches—not even in a good way, it's horrible, crushing pain in every inch of my muscles. I faintly remember crying in the night and screaming from nightmares. I rake my shaking fingers through my hair, pat my cheeks to make them look rosy and happy and ignore my red-rimmed eyes.

On the way down, I notice Thomas's door is open but I remember last night and hurry down without him. It isn't until the cool temperature hits me that I realize I've forgotten my sweatshirt. Luda Mae's eyes squint at my scars.

"You look like hell ran you over," announces Conner. I shrug. "You look like two skanks ran you ever," I say calmly, watching him squirm as he's put on the spot. Big Breast gives me the evil eye over her coffee, sporting extremely bright lipstick and slinky shorts that should be illegal so early in the morning.

Since it looks like it's going to be a long time before breakfast, I decide to walk upstairs, snag my jacket and maybe my book. Keeping as quiet as possible isn't that hard; I'm a stealth expert. The shower is running when I get to the landing, pipes rattling and whining as loud as they can. The door sticks when I push it open and makes a loud noise. The water shuts off, the pipes hissing. Wet footsteps fall in a one-two pattern on tile.

The door opens and a cloud of steam rolls out, followed by a lumbering figure. Thomas is dressed in jeans that hug his long longs and accent the length and a dark green flannel shirt that sets of his eyes. He's wearing his mask but it's cleaner.

I hide in my room, searching, searching until I find a clean sweatshirt and pull it over my head. "Adrian!" calls Luda Mae's voice. "Child, what ever are ya'—oh." She frowns at the sight of my sweatshirt but I ignore it and follow her downstairs. A door slams and heat slides against my back.

"Morning, Thomas."

His hand brushes mine but I pull it away. _You filthy little freak, _I tell myself, allowing the negative talk to lower my mood. His shoulder presses against my shoulder blade and I notice he smells like pinewood. He makes a soft shushing noise as his hand brushes my lower back and then drops lower. His hand clamps down on my hip, hot and heavy and solid and almost too huge, nearly swallowing my hip. His warm breath, reeking of spearmint toothpaste, invades my lungs.

Despite myself, I lean against him and he growls softly, his chin snug against my shoulder. I close my eyes, letting him lead me down the steps with his arms secure around my waist. He is solid, hard and hot against my back. "Thomas," Luda Mae says, "could ya' get tha'—" She turns and stares at us—at me, at his arms around my waist, at his face against my shoulder—and then she breaks into the widest grin I've ever seen on anyone.

Thomas grunts into my skin and the sound, the vibration, seeps into my muscle, sending shivers down my spine. "Ah'll go get tha' meat."

"I'll help. After all, Tommy just got out of the shower and he's nice and clean and I don't want him getting dirty in the basement," I say. "Tommy?" Luda Mae repeats with a cocked eyebrow. "The basement is no place for a young woman."

"You're a young woman as well," I answer and unwind myself from Thomas's arms. He gives me this look with his eyes that reminds me of a pathetic dog and then he retreats to the table; all talking stops when he steps in.

A chair scrapes the floor.

Luda Mae and I descend into the basement, her leading the way. The basement is made of cement, the floor is covered in a layer of cold water that makes my toes ache, and everything reeks of wet stone. It's very dimly lit and I can hardly see Luda Mae's braid in front of me so it doesn't really surprise me when I run into something.

My fingers skitter down to nurse the pain in my knee but I freeze when I feel soft skin, cold and dead, against my hand instead. "Luda Mae?" I whisper, watching as light floods the basement. The rancid smell of meat makes me queasy and the sight is no better; there are so, so many bodies; some lay on top of each other, some are split in half, their insides spilling across the floor. Blood soaks the water, tinting it pink and bile rises hot and fast in my throat.

"What's…what's—"

A hand clamps around my wrist and I immediately begin to struggle, thrash with all my might. Everything I've been—_calm_, cool, collected—went flying out the window. "Calm down, child!" Luda Mae's voice snarls out of nowhere and I still, gasping and shivering, my hair plastered to my face as my feet ache with a chill that isn't from the water.

Thomas holds me against him, his muscles pressing into my back, his hands laying on my belly, kneading the skin there and I stare at his hands, clean, freshly clean but all I can imagine is the dark, red blood dripping from his hands as he killed these people, people with friends and family and pets, people with lives, people with lovers…people who aren't me.

"Now, I know ya' a smart girl," says Luda Mae as I gasp for breath. "I can't breathe," I wheeze out. My knees hit the ground first, followed by my hands. Harder and harder, I try to breathe but the breaths are too shallow, way too shallow to bring any actual air into my lungs.

There are tears freckling my hands as I black out.


End file.
